“No, of course I shan't. I should be glad, but I've got a feeling that won't happen.”
“I have the greatest respect for womanly intuition; I have a great deal of it myself. But doesn't yours inform you that I am a person easily capable of performing a murder?”
“No, of course not!” Abby said, flushing.
“Then it is underdeveloped. I assure you that I am.”
“Yes, probably,” Charles intervened. “But not this murder! You'd go in for something a bit more subtle.”
“Why, Charles, I did not look for this tribute from you!” Gavin said mockingly.
“You can take it that way if you like. I'd be willing enough to consider you for the star part in this drama if I could think of any conceivable reason why you should want to murder Sampson Warrenby. As I can't, you'll have to go on being a super, as far as I'm concerned.”
“But doesn't your dislike of me make it possible for you to picture me in the star role?” Gavin asked softly.
“No.”
“Oh, you are a very poor hater, Charles! Or are you maliciously attempting to make the Chief Inspector lose interest in me? I believe you are. I shall have to tell him that I have already committed one murder, and I meant to let him find that out for himself.”
“On paper. That's different.”
“Many, on paper. Only one in actual fact.”
“Look here, don't you think this has gone far enough?” said the Major uncomfortably. “It isn't quite a fit matter for joking, you know!”
“But I wasn't joking. It is well known that I murdered my half-brother.”
The Major was stricken to silence; Charles said, under his breath: “Must you always dramatise yourself?” and Hemingway, with an air of cosy interest, said conversationally: “Did you, though, sir? And how did you manage that, or is it a secret?”
“It's a lot of nonsense!” muttered Sergeant Carsethorn, glowering at Gavin.
“I induced him to kill himself, Chief Inspector, thus succeeding to his property. I won't say to his debts, for they were really almost negligible—unlike the liabilities which attach to any estate in these delightful times. Of course, had I known that Walter's money was almost wholly tied up in land—did I say that reverently enough, Charles? I've been practising ever since I succeeded Walter, but I fear I still haven't got it right—well, had I known this, I'm not at all sure that I should have driven him to suicide.”
“If you don't like living at Thornden House, why don't you clear out?” demanded Charles.
“Find me a buyer!”
The Major rose to his feet. “I must be getting along,” he said. “If I may say so, Plenmeller, you're talking plain balderdash!”
“What a lovely word! May I use it, or is it copyright?”
The Major ignored him, saying to Hemingway: “The late Mr. Plenmeller, as I have no doubt the Sergeant will tell you, was a bit of a war-casualty, and took his own life while temporarily of unsound mind.”
“Leaving a letter accusing me of having driven him to it. Don't forget that!”
“It's a pity you can't,” said the Major, with unaccustomed sternness. “Mistake to keep on brooding over things. Goodnight, Abby!”
He nodded to the rest of the company, said: “Night!” in a general way, and departed.
“Ought we to be going too, Charles? Your mother invited me for eight, and I don't want to keep her waiting,” said Abby, who, like most of her generation, had very good manners.
He glanced at his watch, and rose, “Yes, it's about time we pushed off,” he agreed. “I say, Chief Inspector, is it true that Warrenby was shot with a .22 rifle? Or oughtn't I to ask?”
“Oh, I don't mind your asking, sir! But you want to go and ask Sergeant Knarsdale, not me: he's the expert on ballistics.”
Charles laughed. “All right! But, if it's true, you've got the hell of a job on your hands, haven't you? Crowds of people have them here. I've got one myself. First gun my father ever gave me. I used to put rabbits with it.”
“Do you still use it, sir?”
“No, I haven't lately: too short in the stock for me now. My father had it altered for me when I was a kid, but it's knocking around somewhere.”
“Do you mean you don't know where it is?” demanded Abby.
He looked smilingly down at her. “Don't sound so accusing! It's either amongst my junk, or in the gunroom. If Mother didn't shove it up in the attics, with my old tramlines.”
“But don't you see?” exclaimed Abby, her eyes brightening. “Someone could have pinched it!”
“Don't be a goop!” he besought her. “They'd have to have a nerve, snooping round the house looking for a stray rifle! Come on, we must push off!”
“But I like that theory,” said Gavin. “It brings Mavis Warrenby back into the picture, and she was one of my first fancies. Try as I will—not that I would have you think I've tried very hard—I can't believe in so much saintliness. You ought to have seen her after church this morning! Such a brave little woman, nobly doing her best to bear up under heavy sorrow! A schoolboy's gun would have been just the thing for her. Oh, I must go home, and work on this new theory!”
“I would,” said Hemingway cordially. “You might tell me before you go whether you've got a .22 rifle as well as Mr. Haswell?”
“I haven't the least idea, but I should think very probably. I don't shoot myself, but my half-brother had several sporting guns. Would you like to come and see for yourself?”
“Thank you, I would, sir,” said Hemingway, getting up. “No harm in making sure, and no time like the present. You two can wait here for me,” he added, to his subordinates. “I shan't be long. I understand you live quite close, don't you, sir?”
“A hundred yards up the street,” Gavin answered, pulling himself out of his chair with one of his awkward movements, and limping across the floor.
Outside the inn, having parted from Charles and Abby, the Chief Inspector set a moderate pace, and was rewarded for his consideration with a snap. “Let me assure you that ungainly though my gait may be it does not necessitate my walking at a snail's pace!” said Gavin, an edge to his voice.
“That's good, sir,” said Hemingway. “A war-injury?”
“I took no part in the War. I was born with a short leg.”
“Very hard luck, sir.”
“Not in the least. I'm sure I should have disliked soldiering heartily. It does not discommode me in the saddle, and since hunting is the only sport I have the least desire to engage in, any sympathy you may be silently bestowing on me is entirely wasted.”
“Do you get much hunting, sir?”
“No, I cannot afford it. It doesn't run to more than one decent hunter. Not a bad-looking horse, and not a bad performer on his going-days. Other times, it's a hit 'em and leave 'em, but he hasn't gone back on me yet.”
“Your brother didn't hunt?”
“No, he was such a dreary type, always either treacling trees, or observing the habits of some birds, and shooting others.”
“What made him commit suicide—if I may ask?”
“I've told you: I did. With his dying breath he told me so, and you have to believe dying words, don't you?”
“Well, I wouldn't so to say bank on them—not under those circumstances. In my experience, the sort of messages suicides leave behind them would be better put straight on the fire, because they only bring a lot of misery on people that in nine cases out of ten don't deserve it.”
“Oh, would you put it as strongly as that? I thought it was so annoying of him: like uttering a dirty crack, and then walking out of the room before it can be answered. We have now reached my ancestral home: go in!”
The Chief Inspector stepped through the gate in the wall, and paused for a moment, looking at the gracious house before him.
“Like it?” Gavin asked.
“Yes, sir. Don't you?”
“Aesthetically, very much; sentimentally, a little; practically, not at all. The plumbing is archaic; the repairs—if I could undertake them—would be ruinous; and to run it properly a staff of at least three indoor servants is necessary. I have one crone, and a gardener-groom, who also does odd jobs.” He led the way up the flagged path to the front-door, and opened it. “The room my brother used, amongst other things, as his gunroom, is at the back,” he said, limping past the elegant staircase to a swing-door covered in moth-eaten brown baize. “Kitchen premises,” he said over his shoulder. “Here we are!” He opened a door, and signed to the Chief Inspector to enter. “A disgusting room!” he remarked. “It reeks of dogs, and always will. My brother's spaniels used to sleep in it. A revolting pair, gushingly affectionate, and wholly lacking in tact or discrimination! Guns over here.” He went to a glass-fronted case, and opened it. “Quite an armoury, as you perceive. Including a couple of hammer-guns, which must have belonged to my father. Yes, I thought Walter would probably have a .22. Take it, and do what you will with it!” He lifted it out of the case as he spoke, but paused before handing it to Hemingway, and said, with a twisted smile: “Oh, that was unworthy of the veriest tyro, wasn't it? Now I've left my fingerprints on it. That might be quite clever of me, mightn't it?”